LODGINGS FOR SINGLE GENTLEMEN.

GEORGE COLMAN, THE YOUNGER, BORN OCTOBER 21,
1762, DIED IN LONDON, OCTOBER 26, 1836.

WHO has e'er been in London, that overgrown place,
Has seen 'Lodgings to Let' stare him full in the face;
Some are good, and let dearly; while some, 'tis well

known,

Are so dear, and so bad, they are best let alone.

Will Waddle, whose temper was studious and lonely,
Hired lodgings that took single gentlemen only;
But Will was so fat, he appear'd like a ton,
Or like two single gentlemen roll'd into one.

He enter'd his rooms, and to bed he retreated,
But all the night long he felt fever'd and heated,
And though heavy to weigh, as a score of fat sheep,
He was not by any means heavy to sleep.

Next night 'twas the same; and the next, and the ne:
He perspired like an ox; he was nervous and vex'd;
Week pass'd after week, till, by weekly succession,
His weakly condition was past all expression.

In six months his acquaintance began much to doubt him; For his skin, like a lady's loose gown,' hung about him. He sent for a doctor, and cried like a ninny;

'I have lost many pounds—make me well-there's a guinea.'

The doctor look'd wise; A slow fever,' he said;
Prescribed sudorifics and going to bed.

'Sudorifics in bed,' exclaim'd Will, 'are humbugs!
I've enough of them there without paying for drugs!

Will kick'd out the doctor; but when ill indeed,
E'en dismissing the doctor don't always succeed;
So calling his host, he said, 'Sir, do you know,
I'm the fat single gentleman six months ago 2

Look'e, landlord, I think,' argued Will with a grin,
That with honest intentions you first took me in;
But from the first night-and to say it I'm bold-
I've been so hang'd hot, that I'm sure I caught cold.'

Quoth the landlord, Till now, I ne'er had a dispute;
I've let lodgings ten years; I'm a baker to boot;
In airing your sheets, sir, my wife is no sloven;
And your bed is immediately over my oven.'

'The oven says Will. Says the host, Why this

passion?

In that excellent bed died three people of fashion.

Why so crusty, good sir? Zounds cries Will, in a taking,

Who wouldn't be crusty with half a year's baking?

Will paid for his rooms; cried the host, with a sneer, 'Well, I see you've been going away half a year? 'Friend, we can't well agree; yet no quarrel,' Will said, 'But I'd rather not perish while you make your bread.'

TO THE CUCKOO.

JOHN LOGAN, BORN AT SOUTRA, MID-LOTHIAN, IN 1748, DIED IN LONDON, DECEMBER, 1788.

HAIL, beauteous stranger of the grove!

Thou messenger of Spring!

Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat,
And woods thy welcome sing.

What time the daisy decks the green,
Thy certain voice we hear;
Hast thou a star to guide thy path,
Or mark the rolling year?

Delightful visitant! with thee

I hail the time of flowers,

And hear the sound of music sweet

From birds among the bowers.

The schoolboy, wandering through the wood

To pull the primrose gay,

Starts, the new voice of spring to hear,

And imitates thy lay.

What time the pea puts on its bloom,

Thou fliest thy vocal vale,

An annual guest in other lands,
Another Spring to hail.

Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green,

Thy sky is ever clear;
Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,
No Winter in thy year!

O could I fly, I'd fly with thee !
We'd make, with joyful wing,
Our annual visit o'er the globe,
Companions of the Spring.

"Magical stanzas," says D'Israeli, "of picture, melody,

and sentiment."

A THOUGHT ON DEATH.

WRITTEN IN THE AUTHOR'S EIGHTIETH YEAR.

MRS BARBAUld, born at KIBWORTH HARCOURT, LEICESTERSHIRE, IN 1743, DIED MARCH 9, 1825.

WHEN life, as opening buds, is sweet,
And golden hopes the spirit greet,
And youth prepares his joys to meet
Alas! how hard it is to die!

When scarce is seized some valued prize,
And duties press, and tender ties

Forbid the soul from earth to rise-
How awful then it is to die!

When, one by one, those ties are torn,
And friend from friend is snatch'd forlorn,
And man is left alone to mourn,-

Ah! then how easy 'tis to die!

When faith is strong, and conscience clear,
And words of peace the spirit cheer,